Well Done!

To learn one of my deep dark secrets, highlight the rest of this post.


"Haha, you fool! You fell victim to one of the classic blunders! The first... is never get involved in a land war in Asia! But only slightly less well known is never go in against a Sicilian when DEATH is on the line!!!"

Just a Dream

Most of this is more or less exactly how I dreamt it last night. Just had to write it down...

People don't believe in ghosts these days. This is a problem, since they do exist, and it's how I make my living. Unfortunately, a few exorcisms here and there aren't enough to pay the bills, and so here I was, spending this fine Monday morning waiting in line at the temp agency office.

“Skills?” asked the receptionist lazily.

“Uhm... problem solving,” I began (thinking especially of that poltergeist with a penchant for antique Delftware), “public relations,” (arcane magics? my inner voice suggested snidely) “and... I'm good with children?” The woman at the desk typed listlessly into her computer for a few moments. The cheerful sign on her desk informed me that her name was Shirley and she was eager to help me today.

Her voice interrupted my reverie. “I've got a place here at a daycare center just off Prince Avenue,” she drawled. “Pyle House, it says here. Opened up recently, so they're still hiring.” The name sounded familiar, but before I could think further Shirley's voice intruded once more. “You'll need a police check first, of course.”

“Fine,” I said. Children were all right. At least I had a great stock of scary stories to keep them quiet. Shirley pushed some papers and a grubby pen at me.

“Sign here. And there. Great. We'll give you a call in a few days.”

.

.

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The woman in charge seemed nice enough.

“So pleased to have you on board, Gwen,” she trilled, shaking my hand enthusastically. “It's Marian. I've been fixing this place up since I inherited the property last year-- some areas are, of course, still strictly off-limits.” She led me down the walk, chattering nonstop. “Parking for staff is just down the drive here. It can get a bit dark with the afternoon shadows, but I've got some contractors coming in next week to put in some lighting. Here's the lawn where the children can play-- I've got it fenced in but we've got to keep an eye on them, of course.” We entered the dim house, which opened up into a wide room filled with all of the usual daycare clutter. I nearly tripped over a miniature rocking horse. “Bathrooms to the left-- a staff toilet and one for the kids, no lock on that one of course.” I let her go on about storytime, naptime, and playtime as I looked around.

“Pardon me, Marian-- where does this door go?”

“Ah,” she giggled. It was probably just my imagination that she sounded a bit nervous. “That's just the basement-- it runs all through the house. It's my next project, to make a downstairs playroom for rainy days. For now, I keep the door locked. We wouldn't want any accidents!”

“Of course not.” I smiled.

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.

.

I brought my car down the drive and backed into a narrow space, almost right up against the wall. As I brushed up against the gray stone the hair rose up on my arms-- just a passing chill, I hoped. I hurried up the driveway into the warm, light nursery.

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.

Everyone was sitting in rows for a game that Marian called duck, duck, goose. I'd never played it this way before. The light coming in from the windows grew even dimmer, and my eyes longed to droop shut to the almost-hypnotic, gentle chanting. Children were running back and forth between two sides. I took a deep breath and noted a sudden mustiness in the air. One little girl got tagged out and started sniffling, so I picked her up, and we walked over to the other side of the room to watch the game. A boy got up to use the bathroom, and I followed his path to the door. I meant to remind him to wash his hands, but the words didn't seem to come out. When I looked back, two rows of kids, including Miss Marian, had vanished.

The mustiness in the air grew stronger and my gaze was drawn to the right. The basement door was open, and I saw an little re-haired girl, following her friends down the stairway. I felt something pulling me towards the door, with swirling gray hypnotic light. I started shivering, my senses tingling.

This was a haunting. A big one. And a malicious one. I couldn't handle this on my own. With the little girl clinging to my neck I slowly dragged myself to the door, like walking through molasses. If I could just get out... get to the car... make it to the main street, call Darcy. Get out, get out, get out, my brain clamored. I threw myself at the door once, twice, as my shoulder ached. The girl in my arm was remarkably silent, at least until the door popped open and we tumbled onto the lawn into bright sunlight. Then, of course, she started crying.

I headed for the driveway but stopped dead in my tracks at the gray miasma of shadow covering my car in shadows. I set the girl down, but she clung to my hand, refusing to let go, so together we walked slowly down the cobblestones. There was a gap in the wall there, a crack opening up where just this morning there had been solidly cemented stone. And, against my better judgment, I looked inside. And then I remembered. Pyle house. William Pyle. Stupid Gwen. Three generations ago, this manor had been his, until he had mysteriously vanished, leaving behind only his daughter and her new husband, who had also been living in the house. They moved shortly thereafter, but always kept the house in the family. No wonder it had fallen into such disrepair-- I certainly wouldn't pay good money to rent the place for a summer holiday.

Inside I saw grey mist and two great, heavy stones. And crumbled bones in between. Pyle's bones. Something was whispering to me, a bloody story of greed, conspiracy, and an unpaid debt. I was looking into the basement, and I couldn't look away. I couldn't pull away. I heard the screams. I saw the son-in-law, dragging a body on top of an old mill-stone, piling stones on top, cementing them together into a mock support pillar. And then, I hear crying. A child. Something pulling at my hand. And I looked down into teary blue eyes and we ran.

.

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“Mrs. Alvin? Yes. Hi, this is Gwen from Sunny Daycare. No, no, Lucy is fine. Miss Pyle is sending the kids home early today-- there's been a bit of a flu outbreak. No, no-- we're at a gas station actually. Trouble with the phones and of course we didn't want Lucy to catch anything. 49 Prince Avenue. Thank you. I'll wait here.”

“Darcy? It's Gwen. We've got a big problem. You know that story about William Pyle? Yeah. Bring everything you've got. 49 Prince Avenue.”

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The children stood in a neat line, pressed against the basement wall, staring blankly ahead. “Let them go,” I said calmly, feeling the energy pulsing through the quartz in my hands. “You don't have to take it out on innocent children. Even Marian-- she can't help being related to your murderers. Just let them go, and I'll send you to your rest.”

A horrible whispering laughter rose around me, and Darcy-- still on the floor, drawing an intricate circle spell around the pillar, hissed under her breath.

“You don't understand.... no.... she promised me... promised...”

“What?” I shouted. “Who?” There was no answer. I pressed a crystal to the bone jutting out the cement in front of me.

With a wail, the spirit appeared suddenly, blank gray eyes looking at me. In his arms was a terrified, mute Marian. “She promised me. Souls to pay for my centuries of torment. Crushing. Rotting. And then the house would be hers.”

Darcy stood, signaling that she was done.

“One death, one soul,” I said, staring coldly at the woman. “If you don't let those children go I will bind you forever to this stone. And then I'll throw it into the ocean.” The spirit screamed, deafeningly. The ceiling creaked ominously as small chunks rained down to the floor and I flinched, throwing my free arm over my head. I heard children crying and saw the first boy stumble away from the wall.

“Darcy, get them out of here!” I shouted. I grabbed her book and began to chant. The ghost wailed as threads of light began to wrap around its form. Marian screamed too, suddenly regaining her voice, as she sank into the stone pillar in front of me. I moved into the second part of the spell, reciting the lines for destruction, and the pillar began to crumble into dust. Unfortunately, so did the ceiling, shaking down further pieces of cement and stone. I shouted the final words for cleansing and raised the crystal, its light spreading to penetrate the darkest corners of the basement. And then I ran for it.

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The papers said that, after evacuating the children, who had all been afflicted by a strange illness, Miss Pyle had gone back into the building when, unfortunately, there was a structural collapse. She was presumed dead, and with no living family member to pay for repairs, the town council decided to cut their losses and raze the building to the ground.

You never know...

xkcd.com

Pretty flowers

Queen's University, Belfast, botanic garden!

It's Spring!

A little spring lamb in Tatton Park, England :)

A Little Aberdeen Wildlife

Do you see the mousie?

He came out to sniff for breadcrumbs!

So cute...

It's a good thing Pooka wasn't around!

Almost Spring

One last post for 2009

My New Year's Resolutions

Take some time to relax

Think carefully before I speak

Spend more time with friends and loved ones

Be more patient

Pick some fun things from our list

Try some new recipes

Get out of my room more often

Live laugh, love, and enjoy

December is here!

So, I inadvertently skipped over November... whoops. Here's what I've been up to as the winter season begin-- aside from all of my Uni work!

Hanging herbs to dry in the veg garden shed.

Wreath-making!

My finished wreath.

First frost on the cars outside!

Christmas party with veg garden folk! Note the vegetarian haggis.

Veg Garden Goodness

There's something quite satisfying about digging around in the dirt every Saturday, even when it's cold and starts raining (un)expectedly. Plus, vegetables are delicious!

My lovely Kale... I shall nurture you and you shall grow under my tender care and then I shall EAT you! Muahaha.

Zucchini, rosemary, and dirty potatoes.

Clean potatoes, Jerusalem Artichoke, and rainbow chard. Yummy and healthy!

Keeping Busy

New Horizons

Having failed to write in this blog for most of the summer, I felt I owed it at least one more post before I begin a new chapter, traveling to the UK once more, this time to attend Aberdeen for my MLitt in Celtic Studies.

I'll miss being at home with family and friends; and the cats, too! My bedroom, our yard, and the kitchen especially, and the familiar comfort of routine. Sometimes it's small things that make a place truly "home."

However, I am looking forward to making my new home in Scotland; hoping that my 6 future roommates are decent; excited to explore more thoroughly the city I once visited. I know I already have a support network and a partner there, and so, I can hardly wait to begin.

Graduation!

All I Want....

...is you.

Signs of Spring

Spring

I want Spring
Bursting out in bloom
Opening up new
Possibilities.

Ah, February

toothpastefordinner.com

The Author's Daughter

...spiritual daughter, of course. A small story, explaining a concept that I've been toying with, after the fashion of Wells himself. Today, after SF class, it just snapped into place, and the words came to me. Enjoy.

“Wells,” she said, “was quite right. Time, the fourth dimension, unseen, yet extant...” she trailed off with a thoughtful smile. Some of our company, accustomed to such declarations, merely continued their supper, and for several moments there was only the rustling of napkins and the genteel clatter of silverware. I, curious as to how she was going to proceed, put my glass back down upon the table and gave the Professor my full attention.
“After all,” she continued blithely, “It's all there in Einstein. But our ancestors--” she laughed. “Ah, they were a warlike people, you know, and took from his works what they needed-- to build a weapon!” Here, the Admiral interrupted.
“But, my dear, surely without it, the West would have been destroyed in the war! Desperate times call for desperate measures.” She tapped her lips thoughtfully.
“Of course, one cannot say 'what might have been' with any certainty. Certainly its invention did not end war and conflict on Earth. Why, it took a century after the last dispute was settled before we were able to devote our energies to invention. And so, poor Wells has finally got his recognition! Surely you've read the papers on our first successful trip through time, a decade past.” Her audience nodded, and the Admiral, who had himself commanded a Time Vessel before retirement, puffed out his chest with pride. “But, dear Admiral, your point brings me to what I have been thinking about for some time now. Why must there be only one dimension of time? Why only one set course for it to follow?”

There was no question now of anyone proceeding calmly with their dinner. The table was silent, and our dining companions turned their excited attention to the Professor. She grinned.
“Perhaps it would be better explained by an illustration. Here-- Wells, perhaps, might have agreed with me if I portrayed his time in this way--” and she arranged her knife horizontally on the table, thusly:
and placed the salt-shaker on top of it. “Now, imagine this knife as the road, while the salt is us, or our vehicle. And so we travel, back and forth, at any rate we please-- with the right equipment.”
The Admiral, being familiar with this concept, looked mildly bored. Everyone now knew, in layman's terms, the workings of Time. Our hostess, however, was not finished.
“But now,” she continued, smoothly lifting my knife from its plate, “What if we have this?” And she placed the first knife above the other:
“And what about this?” She removed my neighbor's knife in the same manner, leaving three roads traversing the tablecloth:
The Professor smiled triumphantly as we stared, trying to make sense of what she was proposing.
“What if Time is not one highway? What if there are other times where-- say-- atomics had not been discovered, and the outcome of the second World War was different?” The Admiral snorted.
“Preposterous!” He exclaimed. “History has but one course-- there is only one future. Why, in some... alternate time, you might not have even been born!”
“Ah, but in the future, Admiral, you do not exist, either, except when you are there,” the Professor countered. The Admiral motioned for her to go on, and took a hefty gulp of wine. “How many times, in your life, have you had to make a choice? How many times have you gone back and forth between the two? How many things, in human history, have been left to choice and chance?”
“And so, what if we could not only traverse our time--” and here she moved the salt-shaker up to the next knife-- “but those other times, as well? Those other dimensions?” There was an excited murmur as our dinner companions began to debate among themselves, and the poor Admiral, quite beside himself, nearly choked on his drink.
“And I...” she laughed joyously. “I have made a machine to take me there!”

All of the bewildered guests had long departed, perhaps too uncomfortable to linger long over dessert for fear of what example their hostess might make of the cake. But I, believing, hung back, wanting to hear more, wanting to see. The Professor smiled; she seemed to know my mind. “It is a very simple construction,” she warned, as she beckoned me back to her workrooms. “Much like a small Time Vessel, really, but... improbable.”
And it was. A rounded, egg-like structure, containing its workings, surely, underneath a comfortably padded bench, the front of it half encased in glass. Though the glass was clear, I caught only flickering glimpses of the levers that must operate it. There it stood, a vehicle to carry travelers into a parallel world. Yet, simultaneously, it was not-there. I half fancied I could see the patterns of the wall behind it-- but I could not-- or perhaps, if I only observed it from the corner of my eye, it was more real-- or unreal. The Professor laughed indulgently at my confusion.
“I did say,” she said, with no malice. “And now, I must really test it, I suppose, before I can truly convince our companions...” She trailed off, and looked about her laboratory purposefully.
“Surely you're not going now!” I cried, as she gathered up a few items that I supposed were important. “Have you thought it through? Are your equations really correct?” The Professor smiled gently.
“There's no time like the present, dear friend. In Verne's immortal words, 'I don't know, but I'll find out!'” I envied her easy optimism, and stared as the Professor climbed into her machine, her form almost taking on its strange, light-bending qualities as it entered the chamber.
She held out a friendly hand through the open door as her smile broadened. “Would you like to come with me?”

And this, my friends, is where the story ends. I can only invite you to imagine what other worlds and other times might be like... these places of “what if.”

Related reading:

H.G. Wells: The Time Machine

Robert Anton Wilson: Schroedinger's Cat

Robert Heinlein: The Cat Who Walked Through Walls... and etc.

I do read the news, you know

"Mayor's affair to be probed"
...is probably not the best headline choice

Happy Obama Day!

One thing that makes me proud is when my generation's children ask about America's first black president, we can say, “Oh, that was before your time.”